


Prospects (Or A Lack Of Them)

by goldencrown_ofweeds



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: @ people who like john john content: how does it feel to be really cool, @ people who read this: how does it feel to be really cool, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Not RPF, Overuse of italics, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, Web Series: Tales from the SMP, and of course it wouldn’t be a fic by me without, as I write another thousand word chapter, how on Earth do you tag for the Tales episodes, no beta we die like Quackity’s characters in the Tales, oc-insert, or - Freeform, or canon just doesn’t happen, which means it can be either, your choice, “don’t expect all the chapters to be over 1000 words”
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29580981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldencrown_ofweeds/pseuds/goldencrown_ofweeds
Summary: Welcome to Prospect, a sign creaks at you forlornly.“Don’t see many prospects out here,” you grumble as you get down from your horse.(Or, no one is writing as much as they should be about the newest Tales. I’m here to fix that.)(used to be called “Prospects (Or A Lack Thereof)” but that felt too weird)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Connor | ConnorEatsPants, Alexis | Quackity & Sapnap, Connor | ConnorEatsPants & Sapnap, I’m reluctant to put any “Reader” tags in so this is all you’re getting, No Romantic Relationships - Relationship, it’s not really that but there’s no tags for the tftsmp characters
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. Finding Gold in the Dirt (Unfortunately, You Find Coal Too)

**Author's Note:**

> me writing this: dashes go brrr (sorry if that’s not your jam! I just like writing like that)  
> also me writing this: John my beloved <3  
> those two statements aren’t related in any way they’re just the two ways I was feeling. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this, it’s my longest work yet and I am Proud. Please leave a comment or a kudos at the end if you feel so inclined!
> 
> anyway, here’s wonderwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me while writing this: long sentences go brrrr  
> also me while writing this: John my beloved <3  
> there’s no connection between those two they’re just the two states of being that I varied between.  
> anyway, this is significantly longer and more plot-filled than anything I’ve written recently, which is cool.

_Welcome to Prospect_ , a sign creaks at you forlornly.  
“Don’t see many prospects out here,” you grumble as you get down from your horse. You look apprehensively at the near-empty streets and buildings - _this_ was where you’d be staying? You could leave tomorrow morning, you suppose, but you’d really rather _not_ , not when you’ve already been travelling for over a week nearly non-stop. Your eye catches on a sign proclaiming “John’s Saloon”, and you grin. Time to pay a visit to the locals, then.

The saloon is… not as promising as it had looked from the outside. It’s not quite _empty_ , but it’s clear they’re understaffed, and the general appearance of the place is suffering for it. As you get closer to the bar, you can see why - there seems to be only a single bartender in the whole place. He visibly brightens when he sees you sit down, and… well. Not to say anything bad about the management of what you’re sure is a fine establishment, but their _sole employee_ looks closer to a child than a man.  
“Welcome to John’s, what can I get you?”

Yeah, you’re pretty sure that’s an actual kid. Whatever, it’s not like you can do much about it. You slide a few coins over the bar, and ask for a pint of beer. He blinks, probably balking at your decidedly un-local accent, but recovers quickly and goes to get your drink. You take the opportunity to look around a little.

There’s maybe six or seven people here - including the bartender, the pianist and you. It seemed a lot fuller from the outside, you muse, but maybe that was just because the other patrons were making enough noise to be equivalent to three people each. If this was going to be one of _those_ towns, where everyone was loud and baselessly rude, then maybe you _would_ be leaving tomorrow morning. That would be unfortunate. 

The _thunk_ of a glass being put down on the counter-top draws you out of your thoughts, and you zone back in to see the bartender smiling bashfully at you.  
“Sorry it took so long, it’s just-“  
“Don’t worry about it,” you chuckle lightly. “I’ve had much slower service from much ruder servers.”  
He laughs nervously at that and goes to start sorting through the register, stopping short when you reach out to catch his attention.

“Would you know any places I could stay the night around here?” you say. “I’m not looking for anything permanent, just a few days until I leave again.”  
He looks almost startled at the thought you could be staying at _all_ \- Prime, how few visitors do they _get_ around here?  
“Uh- yep! Yeah, mhm, there’s a- um,” he clears his throat, “there’s a- uh, a couple of rooms upstairs? You could use one if you want- or not! I mean, the kitchen would be communal and there’d be noise from down here and-“  
You can’t help but laugh a little at that, and his head immediately snaps up as he goes dead silent. Oops, that was _not_ what you meant. You very hurriedly assure him that the offer was very kind, and that you might take him up on it, but you’d quite like to know what other places are on the market that _don’t_ involve you encroaching on some poor stranger’s private home. 

John, as you learn the bartender’s name is (and does that mean this kid is the _owner?_ ) is in the middle of telling you about a small inn a few roads down when- _bang!_ The doors of the saloon burst open, swinging back so far they ricochet off the walls. John sighs.  
“This is the second time in… two hours,” he mutters, exasperated. Louder, “What do you want.”  
You’ve turned around now, and can see three men in cowboy get-up standing in the doorway. They look like testosterone-fuelled idiots, and you’re almost annoyed at them for ruining your perfectly peaceful pint of beer. One of them stalks up to the bar and slams his hand on the counter.

“We happen to be in need of some money, bartender!” He proclaims loudly - which, okay, _rude_ , they’re going to rob the man and don’t even know his name. “Any idea where we could get some of that?”  
“Try _not here_ ,” you pipe up in his place. “The poor man’s not had a chance to make any since you last decided to pay a visit.”  
The bandit (because that’s what he is, you guess) scoffs at that.  
“That ain’t my problem, is it? ‘Sides, who’re you to tell us, huh?”  
You groan internally. Prime, this is the worst conversation you’ve ever had.  
Out loud, you say, “A concerned citizen.”  
One of them guffaws loudly at that - a glance over tells you it was the one in green next to the door.  
“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, ‘concerned citizen’,” he says as he walks over. “Name’s Mason.”  
Now, you don’t like to be impolite to people you’ve just met, but the wolfish grin Mason’s wearing and the way he’s standing over you make it clear that you have no other course of action.  
“Pleasure,” you drawl sarcastically, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. You look questioningly over to the man still standing by the entrance, and thankfully he takes the cue.  
“My name’s Flint.”  
In order to include Flint in the conversation, Mason has to step back a few paces. Now you can breathe again.

You make eye contact with the final bandit, meaning to get him to introduce himself. He’s a little slower on the uptake, and Mason has to hiss something in his ear to get him to answer.  
“Jack,” he says shortly. That’s an... oddly _normal_ name - you’d been expecting something like _“Jimothy Disappointed-Parents”_ , honestly. 

And then John, bless his heart, makes the already mounting tension even worse. “You’ve been coming in here for weeks,” he says quietly, “and you’ve still never told me why you need the money anyway.”

“Why not?” says Jack - and now you hate him even more, which you weren’t sure was possible until it happened.  
“We need it,” Flint says - and it doesn’t feel like the whole truth.  
“You owe us, don’t you?” says Mason - it sounds like a warning and a threat, and you don’t even have time to process what you’re about to get yourself into before you’re standing up - very slowly, like you’re approaching a rattlesnake.  
“Owes you what?” 

They have no answer for you. That’s enough to get you absolutely _furious_ , and now you’re circling Jack and Mason so you’re standing with your back to the door - still slowly, but now more like the threat than the threatened.

“Does he owe you money? Money he’s worked hard to earn, money he can’t give you because you’ve already taken it anyway?”  
You turn so you can see all three bandits, feeling awfully like maybe you’ve just signed a death warrant. You find you don’t much care.  
“That’s not it though, is it? You really think he owes you respect. Right? Because you’re the _Big Bad Bandits_ and he’s supposed to be scared of you, but all you are to him is an inconvenience, actually. Get a hobby.”

You take a deep breath to calm yourself. You walk back over to the bar, deliberately turning your back to Jack and Mason. Sliding a few more coins to John, who smiles awkwardly from where he’s cowering behind the bar, you bite out a final comment.

“You know,” you say lightly, turning to leave, “I might’ve only seen the ‘tough macho men who get whatever they want’ routine _once_ , but I’m- I’m already tired of it, honestly. Your lines are corny, your stances are completely wrong, and if someone told one of you to punch a brick wall you’d do it and break your hand in the process. Grow up, find a stable job, and go bother someone else.”

And with that, you breeze out of the doors of the saloon. Maybe you’ll check out that inn John was telling you about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! hope you enjoyed this :D congratulations for making it to the end - if you want, you can leave a comment or a kudos! 
> 
> For anyone who doesn’t understand the chapter title, John is the gold and the bandits are the coal. democrat-haters stans - I’m sorry.
> 
> Please don’t expect any of the other chapters to be as long as this... they might be, but I make no promises.


	2. Coal Is Often Used As A Source Of Fuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t exactly _mean_ to stay in Prospect for a whole week, but here you are: on your seventh day with no plans to leave any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took much longer to write than the first, but that’s probably because I no longer have the benefit of New Idea Excitement(tm). Also, for some reason I decided to continue the coal/gold metaphor in the chapter title? Still unsure as to why.
> 
> A few things to note before we begin:  
> \- The saloon is still in debt! Just… significantly less than it was in canon.  
> \- I mentioned the rooms being upstairs last chapter - the poker tables and such are now in the basement. Now John has somewhere to live :D  
> \- We do end up living with John! It’s never mentioned here, but we do!  
> \- The bandits coming in and politely(-ish) asking for money is a regular thing and the reader is Tired Of It
> 
> Anyway, guns/gun violence and alcohol are mentioned in this chapter, so be careful! They’re very brief, but just in case.

You didn’t exactly _mean_ to stay in Prospect for a whole week, but here you are: on your seventh day with no plans to leave any time soon. It’s not like you have anywhere to be - before arriving in Prospect you’d just been riding around, looking for anywhere to settle down. Never in a million years would you have guessed that the place you’d been looking for would be _here_ , but fate moves in mysterious ways, you suppose.

Now, you sit in a back room at the saloon, quietly doing paperwork that John had never found the time to fill out. You reckon he probably had far too much to do before you arrived, considering he also had to man the bar and clean up after-hours and make his own meals that he rarely got to finish and really, that’s why you’d stayed so long - because this _child_ (John was only _seventeen_ ) was being given far too many responsibilities for even an _adult_ to reasonably handle. But it’s worth it to stay, it’s _so_ worth it, and you’re once again reminded of this as John bursts through the door, snickering. You put your pen down.

“What’s up?”  
“They’ve sent Jack over this time,” he says, struggling to talk over his giggles. You roll your eyes good-naturedly.  
“ _Again?_ Right, I’ll handle him,” You say as you heave yourself from your spot at the desk. “You just stay in here for a minute and I’ll be back once I’ve chased him off for the day.”

Since the confrontation on your first day in Prospect, the bandits have mellowed out considerably. Now, they just kind of… mope. That’s not even an exaggeration, you’ve seen them hanging around the shooting range - they just sit and complain dramatically for hours. Apparently, none of them have regular jobs.

“Hey, partner!” Jack exclaims as you walk over, overly friendly and needlessly grand. He’s covering his nerves, you realise. “You wouldn't happen to have any, uh… any spare change, would ya?”  
You stare at him, exasperated.

“No more than we had yesterday, when you _sent someone else over_. Just get a job somewhere, it really wouldn’t be that hard.”  
Jack grimaces and rubs at his neck at that, offering you a sheepish grin as he says, “We tried, but… everybody said they didn’t have any space for us on account of us, uh…”  
“Stealing from them multiple times?” You finish for him - you raise the pitch at the end like it’s a question, but it’s really _not._ Jack nods, and your hands become closely acquainted with your temples as you try to figure out how you’re supposed to get these idiots _out of your hair and into the world_ if no one will take them. Suddenly, an idea bursts into your head, and you wonder how you never thought of it before. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” you say, your mind already whirling as you go to get your hat and jacket.  
As you re-enter the back room, John looks at you quizzically. You just tell him not to worry about it, and that you’ll be back soon.

\- -

Standing in front of the sheriff’s office, you begin to wonder if this was actually as good of an idea as you’d first thought it was. What if they pull their gun on you? What if they make you leave Prospect? You _are_ a stranger in a small town, after all. The thought makes you tap your hip nervously, checking for your own gun - it’s there, of course, sitting snugly in its holster. With that reassurance in mind, you steel yourself and push open the door. You’re immediately greeted with the sight of the sheriff’s desk, and- well.

You don’t usually see much virtue in disrespecting people based solely on your first impressions of them, but you might just start.

The sheriff (or at least, you assume it’s him) is sitting in a high-backed leather chair with his feet crossed up on the table, happy as a lark. There are mountains of paperwork on either side of his shoes, and you think you spy a bottle of whiskey amidst the carnage. He looks up when he hears you come in (you notice the scar across his left eye) but he doesn’t say anything. You’re left to awkwardly start the conversation yourself.

“Hey, I’ve been around a couple weeks and I’m planning on staying. Thought I’d let you know I’m here.”  
He sighs, taking his feet off the desk and wiping it down with his hand. Grabbing a piece of paper seemingly randomly, he starts writing.  
“Okay, I’m gonna need your name.”  
You introduce yourself, and he hums.  
“Sheriff Sherman Thompson, at your service - or, I would be, if I particularly cared at all.”

And that…. _that_ makes you blink. Suddenly, the reason for the bandits’ months-long success bursts into crystal-clear clarity - the _one single form of law enforcement here_ had decided _not to do his job._ Because of _course_ he had.

“Charmed,” you drawl belatedly, and Sherman (Sheriff Sherman? Sheriff Thompson?) huffs.  
“Yeah, alright. Occupation?”  
You pause. For all the time you’ve spent talking to John, the two of you never actually discussed a formal position for you.  
“I work as a manager at the saloon, I suppose. Not that there’s much to manage, I’m really just another employee.”  
“Don’t need your life story, just the place of work would have been enough.”  
That’s rather offensive, you think, coming from someone who _asked for the information._ You’re liking this guy less and less as time goes on.

Sherman (you’ve decided that's what you’ll call him) finishes writing and puts the paper back into one of the many piles. You’re fairly certain it isn’t the same one he took it out of.  
“Percy’ll get back to you in a couple weeks about opening a bank account,” he says gruffly - then pauses, before he says, “If I remember to send that over to him, that is.”  
Prime, and you thought the _bandits_ were infuriating. Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you settle for passive-aggressively biting out your next comment.

“Actually, that’s sort of what I came in to talk about. The gang of bandits that’s been looting the town are looking for some more… _legitimate_ jobs, and nowhere’ll take them. Anything you could do about that?”  
“I ain’t heard about no bandits,” he says slowly - how incompetent can one person _get_ , “but if nowhere else’ll take ‘em and there’s only two of you workin’ at the saloon…”  
He trails off, obviously confident that you’ll catch on to what he’s inferring. You do - and while you can’t exactly say you’re _ecstatic_ at the idea, it’s better than nothing. Besides, you and John could definitely use the extra hands.

“Thanks,” you say at length, fighting not to let your previous irritation bleed through (you’re unsuccessful). “I’ll- _We’ll_ think about it.”  
Even if he isn’t here, John is an important part of the business - it feels wrong to leave him out of such a massive decision.  
“Alright, okay, if that's your business done then get outta my office,” Sherman grumbles. You suppose you don’t have any reason to stay, so you just turn and leave the building. You don’t see it, but he puts his feet back up on the desk and takes a long gulp of whiskey after you’re gone.

\- -

Once you’re outside, you take a deep, grounding breath. That was, quite possibly, one of the most infuriating conversations you’ve had in your entire life. At least you got something out of it, you reason, even if the “something” was the possibility of hiring a man-child, an insatiable flirt and… actually, you don’t have any complaint against Flint - apart from the obvious issue of him helping to rob several establishments.

Still, it’s enough to give you pause. _Would_ it be a good idea to hire them for the saloon? You’re not very comforted by the conclusion you reach: 

You don’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a chapter, am I right? Sheriff Sherman, my abhorred <\3 (/hj, I think he’s cool but he would infuriate me irl)
> 
> My entire knowledge of old western stuff comes solely from that Tales episode and also my childhood obsession with the Calamity Jane movie, and I think that’s very funny and also quite iconic of me
> 
> ALSO! This decision is up to you guys! Do we let the bandits work at the saloon or not? Personally I’d say yes, since I think it would be INCREDIBLY funny and I have a couple of ideas for it already, but if you think not, that’s okay! Let me know in the comments regardless :D

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hope you enjoyed this :D  
> I know I loved writing it!
> 
> Now, I have a small problem:  
> I know I want to write more in this universe, but I’m not quite sure what. If you have an idea/prompt/dialogue line you want me to use, please do leave it in a comment!
> 
> edit: made a few adjustments to the beginning and end notes, and made this an unfinished work!


End file.
